


Working For the Weekend

by simplyprologue



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post - Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s been a hellish week. Hellish ten days or so, to be more exact.</i> Will and Mac at the end of a week and a half without sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working For the Weekend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fredesrojo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredesrojo/gifts).



> **A/N:** Palate cleanser between _Holding On and Letting Go_ and _Paterfamilias_ , like 75% Meg's fault and 10% Emily's fault. There's a great dearth of face-sitting in this fandom, which is all you need to know about what you're getting from this fic.

It’s been a hellish week. Hellish ten days or so, to be more exact. Days that have left them weary, dropping them off from work straight into bed only to blink and crawl out between the sheets and back to the office. The Pope is resigning, North Korea has nukes, Obama gives his fifth State of the Union, a goddamn _meteor_ hits Russia—and New York City is drenched with nearly twenty inches of snow, extending their commute to obscene proportions.

Friday doesn’t come soon enough.

But when it finally does, Will rolls over onto his side, reaching out for Mac only to find her side of the bed empty and cold. Which, of course, summarily rules out the idea of morning sex and suggests that what was supposed to be, at last, a morning to at least wake up at their usual hour is not to be.

This is confirmed when Will eventually works up the strength of mind to open his eyes and find the note that Mac left on her pillow, explaining that Jim had called at 7:30 with a State Department source who would only be available for another hour before they had to get on a fourteen hour plane ride to Beijing to meet with a South Korean minister with intel on North Korea’s nuclear program. And _good morning honey, hope you slept well._ Love you. See you at the office.

Groaning, he drags himself out of bed, gets ready for work, and makes the trek (via cab) to the newsroom. Well, not immediately. He actually makes the cab driver drop him off half a block from the AWM building so that he can stop at Starbucks for coffee and something for Mac to eat for breakfast, since he’s fairly certain that she’s forgotten to eat.

Slogging into the bullpen with a cup in each hand, he’s brought up short by Mac’s profile, in what must be her tightest pencil skirt and slimmest cut blouse and highest heels, leaning over Neal’s shoulder to read something on his computer screen, glasses perched halfway down her nose.

She notices him fifteen seconds later. Smiling, she straightens up and, not bothering to remove her glasses, saunters (probably not _saunters_ , Will thinks faintly, but the snow and salt and long days have been meaning pants and flats and sweaters which are cute but nothing like _this_ , Mac with her perfect ass and lithe legs and magnificent breasts and stupidly sexy librarian glasses and usually he’d say that Mac is only ever maybe 35% cognizant of what she does to him, but today it’s a solid one hundred) over to him.

Of course, two can play at that game.

So after she takes the coffee and croissant from him, he pushes her glasses to sit against the bridge of her nose, skirting the backs of his fingers down the curve of her jaw, and squeezes her elbow.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, and then kisses her cheek.

(And so it begins.)

The staff must catch on fairly quickly, and after deciding their survival is best assured if they let their bosses alone, stay mostly in the background while he and Mac spend the day toying with each other in the moments they steal in between their managerial duties. Still, there are several close calls—if you can still call Charlie walking in on your fiancé sitting on your desk while you inch your hand up her skirt and between her legs _close._ Thankfully, all Charlie did was roll his eyes and tell him to feel Mac up on their own time.

“It’s our lunch break,” he grumbles, and Mac hops down from her perch and brushes out nonexistent wrinkles from her clothes.

That’s not to say that Mac doesn’t get in her own shots, especially since between the two of them she’s the subtler one by half.

Not that that means much—

A folder accidentally falls to the ground as he comes back from the break room, giving him an excellent view of her backside as she bends carefully at the waist to pick it up. Later on she plants her hands onto the top of his table, where he’s working on his script, giving him a preview of the low cut black lace bra she donned while he was still dead to the world this morning. Coming back from grabbing take out for an early dinner, she backs herself up against him in the crowded elevator, standing just so his hand touches her ass. Smirks, of course, when he can’t help but stroke the sleek material of her skirt, feeling for a panty line—and finds none. When she finishes tying his tie before broadcast, her hands fan out over his chest and smooth out the fabric of his dress shirt all the way down to his belt, which she needlessly rearranges before grinning and telling him she has to be off to the control room and positively sashays out of his office.

Will does the broadcast very desperately trying to not think about Mac’s hands lingering at the front of his pants. (It’s funny—not really, but in the way that’s designed to cover up patheticness—that he went _years_ without sex before Mac came back to New York, and now ten days without it and he’s panting after her like a dog.) So at the end of the show he doesn’t even wait, just retreats to his office to change back into his clothes, rolling his eyes (despite an anticipatory thrill that goes through him) when Mac slips out of the control room and wordlessly (but not without a coy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth) follows him into his bathroom.

But doesn’t help him undress, which he thinks is unfair.

“ _Now_ you’re just going to watch?” he asks with a sardonic little grin as he unknots his tie.

Her smile grows wider. “I like the view.”

Will sighs. “So this whole little back-and-forth all day, and the clothes and the—”

“Did it cross your mind that maybe I’m riling you up for my own benefit?” she asks, crossing the small distance between them to start unbuttoning the starched linen shirt.

 _Much better_ , he thinks, dropping his arms to his sides and staring down at her, although with her four inch heels on, there’s less of a height differential that usual, putting the top of her head somewhere around his nose. “I have no doubt about that. You generally get great amusement out of driving me up a wall.”

“What can I say?” she teases, pulling his shirt out from his pants. “I like it when you break the leash.”

He snorts, shrugging out of the shirt once she deems her job done. “What does that—in this metaphor, aren’t you holding the leash?”

Briefly the teasing look on her face is eclipsed with one of pure exasperation, before something akin to determination settles over her features.

“Shut it,” she chides, backing him up against the sink.

He likes where this is going.

“Make me,” he says, knowing it’ll get a rise out of her.

(It should probably diminish his excitement that Mac anticipates his response, but it’s actually pretty nice that Mac can expect the usual old routine and still want to pin him to the nearest hard surface.

It’s comfortable. But not the boring comfortable. The kind of comfortable that involves minimal finagling and maximum orgasms.)

Rolling her eyes, she leans up on her toes, wraps the fingers on one hand around his neck, and pulls his mouth down her hers. It’s lips chased by teeth chased by tongue, and every twenty seconds or so Will tells himself to pull back, that it won’t be long until they’re home, that the staff is right outside. But it doesn’t matter, and as he leans back against the lip of the sink his hands plant themselves on Mac’s ass, and he grinds her against him.

_Fucking finally._

His hands trail from her ass to her hips to her waist and then back down to that prime real estate, where he starts bunching the fabric of her skirt in his hands, tugging the hem higher and higher so he can wedge one of his legs between her own. She needs little encouragement to start rocking against his thigh, emitting the soft high cries that he knows means that they really do need to get home, and right fucking _now_.

MacKenzie winds up towing him through the bullpen, and he steadfastly ignores the knowing salute that Sloan throws her on their way out. He then also elects to steadfastly ignore the fact that he knows there are security guards monitoring the cameras in the elevator, instead framing Mac’s hips with his hands and backing her up against the wall to tongue her neck the whole ninety seconds it takes for them to descend to the lobby. After that (well, after exiting past the crowd of fans and pretending for half a minute to be decent human beings, and then hailing a cab) Mac stares straight ahead for thirty-two blocks all the while rubbing him through his pants.

Will winds up paying the taxi driver twice the fare in the hopes that _Star_ or _In Touch_ doesn’t get tell on the face of ACN’s fiancé being a little (or more than a little) handsy on public transportation. Then out of the taxi, into the building, past their doormen, and into the elevator where they show more restraint than at AWM. Well, not so much they, but him, since he has a fairly decent relationship with his building manager and really doesn’t want to hear about it from him. Mac, however, is very dedicated in seeing how much of his clothing that she can get out of her way, namely his belt and jacket.

Still, Mac shoving him out of the elevator and against the wall in their entryway—and promptly dropping to her knees—catches him entirely off-guard.

“Honey?”

And then because he’s not a fucking idiot (most of the time, anyway) he realizes what’s happening when she undoes his fly and sends his pants and boxers to sit at his ankles.

“Oh shit,” he groans as Mac rubs her palms up and down his thighs, spiraling inwards more and more on each pass. He’s hard already, has been since before they even left the office, and that was before the was a four block stretch on the ride home where he wasn’t entirely certain he’d make it to their building without first coming in his pants. Although, debatably, he should have had more faith in Mac, who has a tendency to utilize her control freak neuroses by pulling him up short just before he loses his shit.

One of her hands encircles his erection and she leans forward on her knees, widening her eyes up at him. He’s fairly certain he whines when her lips pass near the head of his cock but then divert to his hips, and her mouth engages in tonguing a line to his groin rather than a dozen other pleasurable things he can think of.

Slowly her hand works him over, and then very quickly it becomes not slow at all, and then she stops completely, squeezing the head of him. He groans, loudly and with very little dignity, jerking his hips forward while one hand scrambles for purchase on the little table in the entryway. The other hand flails for a few seconds, before Mac catches it and puts it on the back of her head, on top of a curtain of soft, shiny hair.

Her lips surround his cock, and then she starts with suction that makes him throw his head back against the wall. Her mouth is hot, and wet, and Mac knows how to use her tongue on him entirely too well, and just how to twist her fist around him as she pumps up and down his length, her lips chasing her fingers and very soon he’s reduced to tightening his hands in her hair and moaning her name, repeatedly, his voice so low that he feels it rumbling in his chest as pressure builds in the base of his spine.

(And they’re not even five feet into the apartment.)

She moans too, or hums, something that sends vibration up and down his cock and then he is far too close, and pulling her up his body before he has to resort to thinking about North Korea’s nuclear capabilities or the Pope or baseball statistics. Giggling triumphantly, she kisses his jaw with saliva-slick lips, snorting at herself when she wipes at her chin with her sleeve. It’s enough of a distraction to her that he can vault them away from the wall and start steering them out of the foyer.

All the while trying to step out of his pants over his shoes, which strands them in the kitchen as he kicks off his loafers and then out of the legs of his trousers.

Crossing her legs at the ankle, Mac leans back against the kitchen counter, staring him down as she slowly unbuttons her blouse. He smirks. The bed is maybe fifty feet away, but turnabout is fair play.

Pinning her to the counter with his hips, he reaches for her breasts. Laughing, her fingers grow clumsy over the buttons, but she manages to finish getting them loose. Winding her arms around his neck, she lets him curl his fingers into the hem of her skirt and pull the fabric up until her thighs are exposed, a thin black lace thong (no panty lines, he remembers from earlier), her belly. He gets a hand between them, and slides his fingers from her entrance to her clit, until Mac’s laugh dies and she’s panting in his ear, his fingers rolling solid circles over the bundle of nerves.

Her legs widen, one hooking around the back of his knee, and he can feel a sharp stiletto pressing into his calf.

Ducking his head, he captures her mouth with his own.

Wetter. She needs to be wetter. Not that they’ve ever had any problems in this pursuit—if nothing else, he and Mac have always been stellar in bed, awkward fumblings in the first few weeks as a couple (both the first time around and second time around) aside.

Her hands slide from his shoulders to frame his face, anchoring their lips together so she can better slide her tongue against his own. And moan, or whatever her little cries could be called, soft and breathy and he feels her little exhalations on his lips, feels her hips roll into his hand, her tongue reaching into his mouth. The pressure between his legs is throbbing, near-painful, and he needs to distract himself from it so he ignores her protests and pulls their mouths apart.

She stops protesting when he shucks her shirt from her arms, sending the cream silk garment fluttering to the floor. His hands go to the slim leather belt at her waist next, ripping it out from the belt loops and tossing it backwards, before deciding he’s too impatient and too unwilling to pull their hips apart to rid her of her skirt, instead tugging the cups of her bra (black lace, like her panties, and regardless he’d gotten more a fair glimpse of it earlier) down under her breasts to expose her pert nipples.

For a moment he’s struck by the question of what to do next—if he should bury his hand between her thighs again, or cup her breasts, toy with her nipples, or bend his head and revisit all his favorite places on her neck and shoulders.

“Do you plan on just looking—should I take care of this myself?” Mac bites her lip around a smile, her hands drifting down his front until they grip the bottom of his sweater, and pull it up and over his head.

“Blasphemy,” he answers, pointlessly combing his hair back into place. And then sighs fondly, staring down at her naked breasts. “It’s just been _so long_.”

“Billy?” she asks, a little like she’s laughing at him.

“Yeah, I’m pathetic, I know,” he says, voice drifting off absently. “How about… this?”

Putting his hands on her hips he turns her around, bending her over the counter.

“This is good,” she answers breathlessly, fanning her fingers out over the gleaming marble. “We don’t do this often.”

(He’s the one who doesn’t like it, to be honest. Prefers to be able to see Mac’s face, read her expressions, but he’s been watching her shake her ass at him all day, drop things so she could bend over in front of him, in her slim grey skirt that’s now bunched up around her waist, revealing a flimsy scrap of lace that’s more of a formality of underwear than anything else.

—not that he particularly minds.)

“I think you said something about breaking the leash, earlier,” he murmurs, trailing the backs of his fingers along her inner thighs.

“Good point,” she says, voice pitching an octave higher.

With that, he hooks his fingers into her panties and dispenses with them. Mac widens her stance, and he has half a mind to pull her skirt down, but decides that he likes the view, Mac in nothing but her Louboutins and designer skirt, forearms resting on the countertop, hair tossed over her shoulder as she looks back at him.

She expects him to fuck her, so instead he stands just off to her side, and seeks out her clit again with the index and middle fingers on his right hand.

“Will,” she whines.

He bends over her to kiss her shoulders. “Patience is a virtue.”

Not that Mac’s ever had much of any. Except, well, the part where she waited him for six years, so maybe he should just shut up, and then he realizes he just told his inner monologue to be quiet, and decides to focus on something else.

Like touching her the way she likes to be touched.

Mac swings her hips back into him, grinding her ass into his erection. “I wouldn’t have to be patient if you’d hurry up and—”

Rolling his eyes, he reaches around her with his other hand, taking over for the fingers on her clit and sliding the two already down there past her entrance and down to the knuckle.

“—or you could do that,” she gasps, arching her back when he curls his fingers and twists them as he brings them out again. And again, deliberately and somewhat roughly, feeling her muscles contract around him. Crying out, she fights to keep her thighs from snapping in around his hand.

It doesn’t take him long to indulge her, however, just teases her for just as long as she teased him. MacKenzie shudders when his hands leave her, a jolt that can only be described as voltaic jumping through his body. He wipes his hands on the front of his button down before reaching down to position himself at her entrance.

“Oh god,” he breathes, and she laughs, pushing herself back onto him.

“Yeah,” she agrees, letting her head fall forward.

She puts one of his hands back on her folds before bracing herself, and he needs little encouragement to plant his free hand on the counter and start thrusting. And, in a few minutes, be reminded of why he largely dislikes having sex like this, since half the fun (maybe not half, but a solid fifth) is watching Mac’s face turn red and her eyes grow wide and wait for her to bite her lip, strained little noises escaping her throat.

The facts that the angle—with their height difference, even with Mac’s heels—isn’t exactly fabulous and his knees are shot on a good days don’t exactly help either, which is why they start stumbling towards the bedroom when it’s clear that this isn’t going to get Mac off either.

Not that it stops them from nearly starting up against the wall on the way to the bedroom; if nothing else, they’re both frantic at this point, waiting for it to get as good as they know it can. So he manages to restrain himself, gets them moving towards the bed once more after unzipping Mac’s skirt and getting it off her and helping her keep from losing her balance as she steps out of her shoes.

His shirt gets unbuttoned (by her, as he’s walking backwards, leading her into the bedroom, and they don’t stop kissing the entire time she’s ripping it off him) and his undershirt somehow gets off (despite the fact that he doesn’t remember his mouth leaving hers the entire time, so he wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find it in halves on the floor later) by the time the backs of his legs hit the mattress.

She shoves him back, crawling on top of him as he situates himself on the mattress, gets his head near the pillows. Sitting up, she exhales heavily, looking down at him with heavily-lidded eyes as she gets up onto her knees, moving forward to place him at her entrance again.

But lest he have to start reciting the talking points about plutonium or the Cardinal from Argentina, Will has other plans, hauling her up until her knees are planted on other side of his head and the headboard is within her grasp.

“You don’t have to—”

Lifting his eyebrows, he stares up at her. “Are you complaining right now?”

“Never.” Assuredly she shakes her head, sending her hair flurrying about her pink face. Before frowning. “What if I smother you?”

“You weigh a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet,” he deadpans, smoothing his hands up the back of her thighs to cup her ass, trying to pull her closer to his face.

“How do you know that?” she asks.

“I know things—”

Mac snorts. “The last time you saw the inside of a gym Bush 41 was in the White House—”

Not like he used to put in a decent amount of time in his high school’s gym in his tenure as their quarterback or anything.

“The last time I saw the inside of a gym, it _was_ the White House’s. And I have a treadmill, and—would you just?” He squeezes her rear, kneading the thick muscle with his hands. “You’re not going to suffocate me. Or if you do, I’ll die happily.”

“Is this really what men think about?” Her mouth shapes into a sarcastic grin.

“Yes.”

Mac sighs, and he looks up at her with an expression that he hopes clearly conveys the question: _A_ _re you done? Can I go back to getting you off now?_ —and it appears it does the job, when she worries her bottom lip between her teeth and grabs the headboard with both hands, allowing him to pull her down against his face.

God, he thinks, trailing his tongue up and down her slit before swirling it around her entrance. It takes a few more moments, but he eventually guides her to settle more firmly down on him so he can reach her clit, work it over with broad strokes and then tight circles.

He wants her to come.

If partially because it can take Mac a while the first time around, if mostly so he’s not leaving her hanging. Besides, it’s the polite thing to do, right? Get her off, and then worry about yourself. And despite however much Mac likes to make fun of him being a Nebraska Republican Square, _this_ he likes, and for more than just the fact that it spares his knees.

“Lean forward,” he murmurs, pulling her hips forward so that he can suck her clit between his lips.

She moans, raggedly in the end, and he doesn’t let up, opening his mouth wider and sucking harder, rolling his tongue over the sensitized nerves over and over again. Her knees slide outwards, the muscles of her thighs loosening at last, and he takes advantage of the angle she’s canted her hips to slide a finger into her and crook it forward, pressing down until she yelps and rattles the headboard against the wall.

Her yelp turns into another moan, and one of her hands leaves the bed to cup her breasts, roll her nipples between her fingers.

“Jesus,” she gasps, hips jerking downwards. “ _Will._ ”

 _Goddamn_ she’s wet, and hot, and tastes so good, and when she starts to lose her balance he pushes in with his finger, curling it into the spot that he’s seen make her eyes roll back into her head. Her hips circle down desperately, a high-pitched whine building in her throat that escalates to a scream when he scrapes his teeth against her lightly and then draws as much of her soaked, swollen flesh into his mouth, and pushes his tongue against her clit.

Mac rambles as she comes down, probably not noticing that her thighs are blocking his ears, hands coming down to thread through his hair. He tastes her aftershocks, lapping at her still, feels them in her thighs—which makes his own arousal twinge painfully, reminding him that he still hasn’t gotten his yet.

Shakily she extricates herself, flopping onto her back beside him.

He kisses her softly, after wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. She doesn’t mind it if he doesn’t (“It seems rude,” she laughed once, pulling him up her torso and into her arms), but he thinks it’s the courteous thing to do.

Settling between her legs, he works his thumbs into her thighs, calming her muscles.

Mac sighs, stroking her hands up and down his back.

“Will, sweetheart?”

He lifts his head. “Yeah?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Would you get inside me already, you martyr?”

A little in shock, he lifts himself up onto his forearms to stare her in the face, which is completely serious, albeit a little frustrated. Laughing (at him, and her; at the both of them really, and the fact that a meteor that was brighter than the sun and seventy feet across hit Russia like it was no big deal), he says, “Well, if that’s what you really want—”

“Your dick? Yes.”

Just to be contrary, he doesn’t move at all. His cock, on the other hand, is encouraged by her statement and leaps against his belly. “You make me feel so needed.”

“Shut up and put it in me, love,” she scowls, although the grin creeping under her expression belies her exasperation.

Her hands wrap around him again, positioning him in the widened cradle of her legs. When he sinks into her, the angle is everything what it wasn’t in the kitchen, deep and snug and _perfect._ Groaning, he buries his face into the pillow, his mouth next to her ear. He feels her breasts shake as she laughs and wraps her legs around his hips, wraps her arms around his shoulders and draws him closer.

“There now Billy, isn’t that better?” she asks, giggling relentlessly.

If he felt like he could rub two brain cells together he would give her some wiseass reply, but at the moment it feels like every synapse in his nervous system has been lit on fire with pleasure, so the most Will can do is grunt and roll his hips up into her, groaning when her muscles clamp down on him.

“And I’m letting you be on top, I’m such a good fiancé,” she continues, cracking herself up. He snorts; they both know that Mac is usually on top because it gives him a better view and lessens the chance of him fucking up a knee or an elbow or a shoulder, and gives her better control.

But _god_ —he rolls his hips again, barely leaving her at all and pushing back into hot, tight, rippling wetness—can it be good like this, too. And, as Mac likes to tease, some part of him that’s deeply entrenched in the primordial ooze does enjoy covering Mac, having her legs wrapped around him, her heels digging into his hamstrings as she comes again and again and again…

Okay, he may be overestimating his prowess with the “again and again” all things considered at the moment, but his mind is sex-addled and there are about twenty different hormones blasting his bloodstream wide open at the moment, so he thinks he can be forgiven for his ego.

Rolling his eyes, he braces himself on his elbows and begins to thrust.

Making a happy noise that comes from her chest, Mac throws her head back against the pillow, a contented glow taking over her features once more. One of her hands clenches in the hair at the nape of his neck, the other moving to his ass, encouraging to go faster, move harder, her legs sliding down from his hips to spread wide on the mattress.

(It could just be the endorphins, but Will doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy just _being_ with a woman. Yeah, they spend twenty-four hours a day together, especially since Mac all but moved in the week the show shut down production between Christmas and New Years, but the sex is another reminder of how _good_ they are together. How good they can make each other feel.

Outside of the bickering, that is.

Or including the bickering, if he’s honest. He loves the bickering and the heated debates just as much as he loves the quiet comfortable mornings and easy silences. No one challenges him like Mac does. And, okay, the electrifying surge pounding through his body is all adrenaline, but he loves MacKenzie more than he ever thought himself capable of loving anyone.)

Open like this, the sound of his hips swinging down into hers is amplified, and he tries to shift lower on the bed to avoid screwing up the insides of her thighs.

“ _Yes,_ ” she cries, hissing the sibilance and holding it as her nails dig into his skin. Her cheeks redden and he brushes her bangs back off her forehead, pumping into her steadily. He feels it a moment later, a second, smaller orgasm that holds her body in suspension for a moment before she relaxes down.

Slowing, he waits for her to catch her breath.

Swatting his ass, she tries to urge him back into motion. “You’re good,” she pants, her hands sliding through the sweat he feels dripping down his back.

Nodding, he drops down against her, trailing a chain of kisses down her jaw before burying his face in her hair, arching his back, and bearing down into her.

“That’s it,” she says, voice thick with the same euphoria he feels. “God, Will, you feel so good.”

His thoughts spin in a tumult of bliss, the pressure building in the base of his spine pulling him away from conscious thought, and less than a minute later the pressure spikes and releases, sending shocks up and down his spine and through his limbs before he collapses, breathing hard.

Eventually his thoughts reassemble. Kissing her cheek, he rolls off of Mac and pulls her with him so that she’s splayed on top of him.

“That was way better than what I had in mind before I realized you were gone this morning,” he eventually gets out, feeling his face split into a hopeless smile.

Mac snorts, lifting her head from where it’s pillowed on his chest to briefly press her lips against his. “I had a feeling you were going to be disappointed by my absence.”

“You could have woken me, you know.”

“Nah. You’re far too grouchy when you don’t get your beauty sleep,” she teases, before sliding off him and out of bed.

Will spreads his limbs out on the bed as she pads into the bathroom, and moment later he hears the water running. And then over _that_ , he hears Mac stomach grumble.

“I didn’t work you that hard, Mac. Although I suppose I should take it as a compliment…”

Her snort echoes in the tiled bathroom. “We ate right after the 4 o’clock rundown, you ass.” She appears in the doorway, and he has to crane his head to see the pout on her face. “I’m too lazy to cook.”

Turning onto his side, he suggests, “We could order in. Italian?”

“Chinese,” Mac says, humming in contemplation. “I want sesame chicken.”

“You’ll eat all the dumplings,” he sighs. She will, too. They’ll get an order of eight and she’ll eat seven, no matter what else they order. And then blame it on him, for not—

“So get me my own order.” Eying the bed, she crosses her arms. “You want me to get the menu, don’t you?”

“You’re already up.”

The way she stomps towards the kitchen would hold more water if it didn’t make her ass look fantastic. When she slides bonelessly back into bed, handing him the stained takeout menu from the place two blocks away, she tells him in a very no-nonsense matter that he’s the one getting up to get their order from the delivery person. And then, leveraging herself up to rest her chin on his shoulder so that she can read the menu:

“Order enough for the weekend. I intend on keeping you prisoner here. Here, specifically. In this bed. And maybe the shower, if we’re feeling energetic.”

“You’ll get no complaints from me,” he replies, letting a hand drift up and down the curve of her waist while deciding between steak and scallions or the shrimp in garlic sauce.

(Both, probably.)

Thirty minutes later he answers the door in his boxers and button down which he filched off the floor on his way to the elevator, and tips the delivery boy 40% when he doesn’t smirk at his appearance.

—and that’s the last contact he has with anyone but MacKenzie until Monday morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
